


The Naked Truth

by naughtyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Chess, Dare, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Naked Cuddling, Shameless Smut, Smut, Strip Chess, Strip Games, Stripping, Truth or Dare, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is bored, John very politely plays chess with him. He's so very obliging but he's also suffering from a seemingly desperate lust that's exacerbated when they decide that strip chess is an excellent idea.</p><p>Excellent, but very dangerous.</p><p>Fluff, smut and Sherlock and John getting naked a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chess

"Play with me."

John Watson has spent far too much time being disturbed and his attention demanded at short notice. He has learned to be available at any given moment simply because Sherlock demands his time. He could choose to ignore him, (and on some occasions does just that) but because Sherlock is both his best friend and clearly needy beyond belief, John looks up from his book and smiles.

"Play what?"

"A game," says Sherlock and settles his hands on his hips. "Anything. Just _something_."

"Right," says John and looks round pointedly. "What?"

Sherlock sighs heavily. "You could think of something."

"Well, yes, I could. But then I'm not the one climbing the walls because we haven't got a case. You pick something."

Sherlock huffs and leaves the room. John truly doesn't expect to see him again for hours, but Sherlock stomps back in a few minutes later and drops a battered, discoloured box on the table. John glances at the box over the top of the book and raises an eyebrow. "Chess?"

"It's a game."

"Yes, I know it's a game, but it's probably going to be over quickly," says John. "You're going to turn out to be some secret grand master and it'll take five minutes for you to feel smug. No."

Sherlock sits down opposite and comes very close to pouting. "I'm not a grand master."

"Couldn't be bothered?" asks John and Sherlock shakes his head.

"It's not my kind of game," he admits with some reluctance. "You can't interrogate the witnesses and there's no evidence to collect."

John clears his throat. "It's not a puzzle, you mean? We could do a puzzle, if you like."

"Chess," says Sherlock. "I'll play you."

"Well obviously."

"No," says Sherlock and gestures to John. "I'll read you. I'll beat you by reading you."

"Charming," says John. "And reading me will help you win?"

"Yes."

John sighs and puts the book down. "What the hell. It'll stop you moping for half an hour." He gestures to Sherlock and scrubs a hand back through his hair. "Go on then, you set it up."

Sherlock bites his bottom lip. "Not sure how."

"What?" asks John and glances at the seal on the box. The box itself is old and the cover faded but John hadn't noticed the tape was still in place before now. He looks up at Sherlock and grins. "Sherlock, have you ever played before?"

"No," says Sherlock. "I tried, once, but chess is Mycroft's game."

"Ah," says John. "Anything he can do?"

"I just don't see the point."

"But you want to play now?"

"You're not Mycroft."

"Oh, you've spotted that," says John and pulls the lid off. A layer of dust ghosts the table and John brushes it away. He takes the board out and lays it flat on the surface. "Well, I used to play on the school team. I won't be a total walkover."

"I'm sure you'll be adequate."

"I thought sociopaths used flattery to get what they want."

"That's other people," says Sherlock. "I don't need to bother with you."

"I think that might be a good thing," says John and tosses the instructions to Sherlock. "Go on. You read. I'll get everything in place."

John doesn't bother to watch Sherlock reading the instructions. He won't explain the game and frankly it won't make a difference either way. John hasn't found much that Sherlock can't become expert at if he deems it necessary. He doubts Sherlock will ever find chess necessary if he hasn't already, but John likes the process of Sherlock learning anything. He's sure that the first few moves will be shaky but then Sherlock will learn and flourish and though John thinks he may win one game, but he won't win if they play more than once.

None of which really matters to John, because being with Sherlock is his favourite thing in the world. He hasn't said the words out-loud and doesn't plan on doing so. Sherlock is a wild and crazy beast, a creation that is three dimensional when everything else is just so flat. London was a series of lines to John before he took the first scary step on Sherlock's adventure and now everything shines to him. The world is beautifully, gloriously terrible and it's all due to the man he's about to play with. It's the dazzle that leaves John happy to indulge Sherlock in the small things, especially when they don't include dead body parts.

He's aware that no matter how many girlfriends he acquires, Sherlock is always the object of his affection and that the natural thing to do is to make love to that object. But Sherlock clarified that aspect of their friendship early on and so John has a very healthy relationship with his hand and the privacy of the shower. John has slowly come to terms with wanting Sherlock and has defined himself so many times by the absence of a physical relationship. He was spent time explaining to people, almost painfully, that they are not a couple, that he's not Sherlock's date, that John isn't gay.

He isn't. Life would be so much easier if he was, because then John could spend some time finding himself a man who could take Sherlock's place. But he has no desire to explore male flesh if it's not part of Sherlock. All his curvaceous and soft history with women is secure and John could and does say honestly that he's not gay, except when it comes to Sherlock, because there John has no choice whatsoever. Simply put, he wants and since he isn't going to get, no other man will do and no woman can give him a satisfactory alternative. John doesn't say that part, but it echoes in the small hours and he lives with it quietly during the daylight as he desires his flatmate.

So instead of acting on it, John sets up the board to play chess and knows that watching Sherlock move the pieces across the board will make him hard. All it really means is that John will be showering before bedtime and Sherlock will be amused for a time while they play. It saves on plaster and wallpaper at the very least and John thinks it's a good trade.

"Okay," he says as he settles the last pawn into place. "Are you being white or black?"

"Black," says Sherlock and John rolls his eyes. "Why?"

"Nothing," says John. "Just can't imagine you playing white."

"It's two colours, John. I can only be one of them."

"Yeah, sure," says John and grins as he moves a pawn forward. "So Mycroft's the business at this?"

"Please, let's leave him out of this, hmm?" asks Sherlock and moves before he looks back at John. "You said you'd play with _me_."

"I am," says John and plays. A few moves in, Sherlock has swiped his fingers over his mouth and chin and is starting to play with some finesse. John grins at him when Sherlock makes a move that won't succeed but will result in a petty little sacrifice. John plucks the black pawn from the table and drops it down to the side. "First blood," he says and Sherlock arches an eyebrow.

"There's no penalty for losing a piece," he says. "I could lose all but one. It's in the rules."

"Yeah, but you won't win with only one," says John and tips the pawn as Sherlock glares at it. "Say goodbye, Sherlock. This little fella's gone."

Sherlock sighs. "You only know if your strategy's worked at the end," he says and John shakes his head.

"Well no, you can figure it out as you go along," says John. "If you know what you're doing."

"Fine," snaps Sherlock and shakes his head as John makes a move to prevent Sherlock taking a piece. "When does this become interesting?"

"I thought you were going to read me?"

"I have," says Sherlock and sighs in disgust. "Your smugness is putting me off."

John chuckles. "Really? I'm better than I thought."

"No, you just don't think _I'm_ any good and you're not playing your best game," says Sherlock. "It's frustrating."

"I'm playing," says John and takes another piece. Sherlock lets out an annoyed huff and John grins. "Okay, I was sort of thinking about the last game I played."

"You're making the same moves?" asks Sherlock and frowns. "Oh, not _those_ moves."

"Hmm?"

"John, I'm not quite sure how this relates to sex, but whatever you're thinking about, it isn't taking my bishop."

"What?" John and clears his throat. "Oh, well. No, I was just reminiscing."

"About the last time you played," sighs Sherlock. "Fine. I'm sure you let her win in trade for sex."

"Well sort of," says John and licks his lip as he plays. "We played strip chess."

"You did what?"

"You know? Where you have to take something off every time you lose a piece?" John shrugs. "We never actually finished the game."

"Was she a bad player?"

"No, she just wasn't wearing very much," grins John. "Anyway, you'd owe me both your socks by now."

Sherlock stares at him and at the black pieces on the side of the board. He bends down and draws off black cotton and sets them on the chair next to him. He stretches long fingers across the board and John bites down on his bottom lip as his pawn is removed from play. "One of yours," says Sherlock and John clears his throat.

"Wait. Sherlock," he begins reasonably. "When I said we were playing strip chess, we weren't _really_ playing. It was just foreplay."

"I'm playing," says Sherlock and nods to the now abandoned piece. "You owe me a sock."

John stares and then with a sigh he bends and pulls his left sock off. "Fine," he says and makes another move. "You're wearing less than me and it's getting chilly."

"I don't feel the cold," says Sherlock and makes an aggressive move on the board. John's right sock is abandoned quickly afterward.

"You definitely feel the cold," says John and curls his toes in against the chair. Sherlock does not like to lose and neither does John. On the other hand, Sherlock's feet are bare and John can add up the number of layers Sherlock's wearing compared to John and finds the odds are stacked rather heavily in his favour. And as much as John doesn't really care about the outcome of the game, he can't quite shake the possibility of a naked Sherlock at his table. At the very least it will give him additional spank bank material.

Sherlock's playing improves rapidly with the additional clause. John's jumper is the first casualty and both their watches lie on the table after a brief discussion on whether they constitute clothing. John takes off his shirt and though the tshirt beneath is thin, the flat feels impossible warm and John concentrates on the board as he counts the possible items Sherlock has left. He takes Sherlock's rook and glances at the man to find Sherlock already unfastening his shirt. Bare, supple flesh is revealed and John's cock gives an involuntary twitch as Sherlock draws shirt away from nipple.

"You know," says John. "We could stop this now."

Sherlock folds his shirt and looks back at John. "Afraid you'll lose?"

"No," says John. "But you don't have much left and I hate to watch a grown man cry."

"I don't cry unless it suits me," says Sherlock and John huffs and claims another pawn. Sherlock's belt joins the shirt on the table and John swallows against a dry throat. Sherlock makes a smart move while John's distracted and John pulls his belt free of the loops and drops it. Sherlock smirks and takes an inconsequential pawn as John pulls his tshirt over his head. "We're even again."

"Not really," says John and straightens up in his chair. He might very well be battling against an erection that's making his jeans uncomfortable, and he might not be the alabaster statue across the table, but John has no worries about being seen naked. His body is weathered and comfortable and he likes his skin. He likes it best when someone else is appreciating it and while Sherlock doesn't reach across and stroke, John takes the gaze as a compliment. "You learn fast."

"It's simple strategy," says Sherlock and glances down as John makes the next move. Sherlock's bishop leaves the board and his queen is in danger. "What happens when we run out of clothes?"

"Technically I think we just get cold," says John. "But we'll just finish the game."

"Right," says Sherlock and clears his throat. "I'm about to get a little cold, John. Do you think we could have tea?"

"If you're just in your pants, I don't think tea's going to cut it," says John and gets up from the table while it's still possible. At least his jeans keep everything almost where it should be. He concentrates very hard on pouring out whiskey, but he can't ignore the whispery rush of zip and the sound of trousers slithering down legs that are for the most part an unknown part of John's flatmate. He walks back to the game and sets the tumbler next to Sherlock as the man folds his trousers.

All John can think about is the amount of skin visible above the table and unseen below it. All untouched by John, at least when it's _just_ skin and he sits down carefully, aware that his own cock is busy reminding him that John Watson might not be gay for all men, but Sherlock's the exception that proves the rule. He aches to touch, but he's disciplined enough to clear his throat and wait for Sherlock to make the next move. John drinks deeply from the glass and feels the whiskey puddle warm in his belly. When his knight is taken out of commission, Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John.

"That was clumsy," he says and John licks his bottom lip.

"Thought you'd do something else," says John and stands up gingerly, aware that Sherlock won't turn away. He won't take himself off and allow John the privacy of removing his jeans in peace and John is visibly hard beneath them. He turns slightly and unfastens the denim, preparing himself to settle down in nothing but his pants and hears the creak of the table. John turns his head and notices Sherlock leaning on one elbow, eyes very firmly fixed on John's fingers. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," says Sherlock and John swears that there's a twitch of a smile at the corner of the man's mouth. "Pray continue."

John rolls his eyes and skins his jeans off, dumping them in a crumpled heap as he sits back down again. There are more pieces on the board than there are clothes on either of them and there are more white than black pieces discarded. John can feel his cock standing proud in his pants and though he's been more naked often, he didn't think being this close to Sherlock and almost discovered would make him harder. But he throbs and John's cock aches when Sherlock stretches a bare arm across the board to move a piece. His knuckles brush John's chest briefly and John can't quite breathe. His skin flutters and Sherlock glances up at him.

"I could take you now," he says and John looks down at the board.

He's dangerously close to losing the game and he isn't at all sure that this should be in any way a lengthy process. He wishes he'd worn more clothes. He wishes Sherlock had worn less. He's very conscious that his cock is pressing the elastic of his pants and that if he has to take them off he'll be naked and hard in front of a man who has said clearly that sex is off the table. The trouble is, it's all sex for John under the table and he huffs out a breath and makes a move.

"Check," he says and forces a smile. "Your move."

Sherlock frowns and moves out of check quickly. It's seconds between moves and pieces should be lost but aren't until John really has no choice and he takes Sherlock's queen. He holds his breath as he removes the piece from the board and only as he sets the felt bottom on the table does John risk looking back at Sherlock.

"Check," he says quietly and Sherlock raises an eyebrow before he stands up. Here, for the first time, John is presented with Sherlock wearing nothing more than his underwear. He can see, (though he doesn't stare as openly as he wants) the firm muscle of the man's thighs, the hair that dusts his belly and the promise of a feathery darkness beneath the black shorts he wears. He can see the way those shorts cling and makes far too many mental calculations of the parts of Sherlock still hidden before Sherlock hooks his thumbs into his shorts and pushes down.

John reaches for his drink before shorts pass down over elegant hipbones. He catches his breath mid drink and coughs, the whiskey going the wrong way. Instead of being able to subtly check out the penis of the world's only consulting detective, John spits alcohol across the table and chokes. He spreads his hands on the table and knocks the board, sending pieces flying as he tries to get his breath back. It's somehow worse when he feels Sherlock's elegant fingers on his back, even if they do bang hard on his skin. John is being touched and he has no idea if the man's still wearing shorts or if a thoroughly naked Sherlock is standing very close indeed.

"I'm all right," he manages and looks down at where the game has been knocked from the board. "Shit."

"I would have won," said Sherlock and John hurriedly nods and tries to get his breath back.

"Fine, yes, you would have done," he says and reaches for his shirt where it rests on the table. "I'll clean this up tomorrow. I think I'm done for the night."

He gets up from the chair and turns quickly toward the stairs, his shirt pressed against his groin and he thinks he just might make it from the room safely before Sherlock calls his name. He risks turning round and is presented with Sherlock's back. His very naked back and the shorts have gone somewhere, leaving John unable to ignore the delicious shape of Sherlock's bottom. There's a dimple at the base of his spine and it's more muscular than John expected. It's a ripe peach of a bottom and John is consumed with the urge to sink his teeth into a cheek and feel the give beneath his lips. It takes every ounce of self control to keep the growl from his voice. "You won," he says. "I said I'll sort this tomorrow."

"Thank you for playing with me," says Sherlock and reaches for his clothes. He offers John his profile and for a second John thinks he catches sight of a penis that isn't entirely unaffected by the naked skin of an ex-army doctor. Just a glimpse of pink and almost hard and then it's covered by Sherlock's neatly folded clothes.

"Well we can alway play again," says John with effort and Sherlock shakes his head.

"I'm done with chess," says Sherlock and moves to leave the room. He pauses at the door and looks back at John. "Maybe next time you can choose what we play."

"Right," says John and steps back. "Could be anything."

"It could be," says Sherlock and smiles. "Anything you like, John."

"Righto," says John and pauses before he escapes to offer a single word. "Snap?"

"Strip snap?" asks Sherlock and nods. "Let's see how your powers of observation have improved."

He walks out the room, leaving John to exhale hard and wonder whether he's gone slightly mad. Always a risk, living with Sherlock, but he hasn't taken his pants off before and John knows damn well why he didn't turn Sherlock down. What he doesn't know is why Sherlock has offered anything that _could_ be turned down. Naked games aren't the sorts of things John usually does with his friends, but then Sherlock isn't like any other friend he has and it's always possible that there's a hidden agenda on this. It would be the only thing that _is_ hidden and John groans as that image, naked detective with a more than casual interest comes back to him.

He races up the stairs and pushes his pants off fast to take care of his aching cock. Only as he comes with his hand slick with sweat and semen does John recall the little smile given as Sherlock caught him looking. He drops his head back against the pillow and John determines that next time, he won't be caught. He won't be the one peeking, though he will look if given the opportunity because he's a sportsman all the way. With a grin, John closes his eyes and wonders when Sherlock will next get bored.

Let the games begin.


	2. Snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following strip chess, John has taken to carrying a pack of cards, suitable for any game Sherlock cares to choose.
> 
> Strip snap is on the cards, literally and the odds that they'll both be very naked are extremely high.
> 
> Oh, it's fluffy smut with a card game!

John has been carrying a box of unmarked cards in his jacket pocket for over a week now. The day after their adventures with the chess board, he reassessed and decided that Sherlock's brain goes to strange places when it's bored. It's the only reason for them taking all their clothes of that John's comfortable with and he has written it off as a hot and unique event, never to be repeated. And yet he still hopes against the odds that Sherlock was serious.

When he woke from the third night of hot and slippery dreams that don't form any coherent structure but heavily feature the briefly glimpsed penis of his flatmate, John bought the back of cards. There's nothing particularly special about them, no nude backs or unusual paintings. They look like every other set of cards John has seen, but he's fingered his way through them and calculated his chances of stripping Sherlock bare before the ever observant detective has John's pants in his hands.

They work solidly and solve cases that take them through the shoddier side of London. John drops to bed exhausted more than once. He's woken on two occasions by Sherlock, a grip of John's shoulder in the middle of the night and John is grateful that the dark hides how hard he is on waking. Sherlock seems to gleam in the night, as though his skin reflects the sliver of moonlight that streaks through the curtains. John just wants to lick the bare column of flesh that's revealed by Sherlock's shirt and he dresses quickly before he gives in to that need.

John's almost relieved when Lestrade goes on holiday and he doesn't get any more hits on his blog. He's nervous too, not because things are definitely on, but because he wants it and John doesn't plan to be the one asking to see Sherlock's naked body. He wants it, no question, but pride dictates that Sherlock must ask for John's first. He keeps his powder dry and thumbs the deck of cards for two days before Sherlock lopes over to his chair and sighs heavily.

"Play with me," he says and John looks up as Sherlock gestures. "The cards, John. I know you're carrying them."

"How did you know that?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Your thumb nail catches on the edge when you flick through. It's loud."

"Oh. Right," says John and draws the pack out. "I just thought a pack would be handy."

"Is that what you thought?"

"Yes," says John. "Look, do you want to play, or what?"

"I want to," says Sherlock and as John unfastens the lid, Sherlock walks over to their front door and locks it. John frowns when Sherlock busies himself bringing over the whiskey bottle and glasses and is far too domestic for John to cope with.

"We playing at the table?" asks John and Sherlock nods. John gets up from his chair and glances down at his clothes briefly, wondering if he should make some excuse and sneak a few more layers on. Sherlock hasn't mentioned strip tease at all, but John hasn't quite shaken the possibility and he steps up to the table cautiously, glad he's wearing slippers and knows damn well Sherlock will notice.

He sits down and shuffles the cards as Sherlock sits up straight opposite him, looking entirely too interested  and alert for John's comfort. "So you can play, I take it?"

"I've played," says Sherlock. "Not for some time."

"Yeah, I guessed," says John. "You know, we can play gin if you'd prefer."

"I've prepared for snap."

John giggles and almost drops the cards. He deals them out and risks looking up at Sherlock. "How do you prepare for snap?" he asks. "It's not like there's a strategy."

"The odds suggest the twelfth card will be a match," says Sherlock and John nods.

"Oh, you'll be fine then," he says. "There's not much challenge in this."

"Then play," says Sherlock and John turns the first card. There isn't a match until the fourteenth card, but by then John's more than a little distracted watching Sherlock's fingers flip over card after card with dextrous ease. He's far too flip at this and he calls before John's brain registers the pair of threes. He hears Sherlock growl out 'snap' before he can do anything else and Sherlock picks up John's pile and settles it on his side. "You can lose that slipper."

John blinks and looks back up at Sherlock. "What?"

"Your slipper," says Sherlock. "I don't care which one."

"Oh," says John and sits up straighter. "So we _are_ playing for clothes?"

"I thought that was the idea," says Sherlock and gestures to the table. "Put it here."

"You want my slipper?"

"I'm claiming it," says Sherlock. "You scrambled off with all your clothes last time. I don't want a repeat."

"Yeah, I was going to bed," says John and frowns. "We didn't say we were playing strip snap."

"You suggested it."

"Okay, but," says John. " _I_ kept my clothes last time."

"And that was far from satisfactory," says Sherlock and taps the table. "Slipper."

John huffs but he removes his slipper and puts it on Sherlock's side of the table. Five minutes later Sherlock has a small pile of slippers, socks and John's cardigan while John hasn't so much as a watchstrap or indeed a pile of cards on his side. "You deal," says John and Sherlock grins as he shuffles the cards. "If you're going to be that fast, I'm not going to bother playing."

"You want me to pretend to be slower?"

"No," says John and frowns. "I'm just saying that if I can't beat you, I'm going to quit."

Sherlock comes very close to pouting but he looks at John and clears his throat. "Sit up straighter," he says and John glares. "You'll see the cards faster."

"Fine," says John, but he loses his watch a moment later when Sherlock flips a queen over and John grumbles under his breath before he yells, 'snap' and claims a thin but landmark pile of cards. He grins as he gestures to Sherlock and the man unfastens his belt and hands it over. "Aren't you wearing socks?"

"No," says Sherlock. John leans back and looks under the table. Sherlock is wearing only his trousers and a shirt and probably the black shorts John hasn't quite been able to forget about. He looks smug and John straightens up.

"You were feeling sorry for me," says John as he meets Sherlock's gaze and the detective shakes his head.

"I don't _do_ sentiment," he says. "I did want something a little challenging though. Tonight seemed to be the best opportunity."

"For what?" asks John and realises that yesterday he spent much of it in his dressing gown, but today he went out and John is wearing more layers to protect himself against the cold. He isn't quite sure he's comfortable with Sherlock waiting for John to be completely dressed before he forces John to strip, but it appeals to his vanity and he shakes his head. "Never mind. Turn your card over."

Sherlock claims John's belt and shirt next and John is very relieved when Sherlock's own neatly pressed shirt is folded on his side of the table. He's never stared so closely at cards before and he stumbles over the consonants as he yells 'snap' and points at Sherlock. "Your trousers," he says and Sherlock gets to his feet. "You were right."

"Yes, of course," says Sherlock and unzips carefully. He looks back at John as he pushes the fabric down. "About what?"

"Better position sitting up," says John. His smile drops slightly as Sherlock bends to take his trousers off. The man might be terrible at maintaining the flat but he's neat about his clothes and they are folded with a perfect line and placed on John's side of the table. John thinks that Sherlock looks like he's waiting to model for a life drawing class and wishes he had the skill so he could offer and capture each poetic line. Sherlock's thighs are long and lean and muscular in a way that only those who have to run regularly can manage. The man has plenty of muscle, lean but evident when he's wearing very little and John's glad he has a tshirt before his own jeans are at risk.

However, the tshirt is handed over a minute later and John is a little too conscious about his nipples as he sits at the table. The whiskey is helping and his head has settled in to a gentle nudge in the tipsy direction, but John is still sober enough to know that his left nipple is stiff and his right nipple is getting there. He hasn't been touched and he hasn't touched himself but John is sitting with a nearly naked Sherlock and he's one call from owning a pair of black shorts. He knows he's biting his bottom lip and a quick glance reveals that Sherlock's chest is too much distraction and John loses his jeans in one missed opportunity.

"Fold them," says Sherlock as John gets to his feet.

"They're yours," says John. " _You_ fold them."

He unfastens his jeans and bends to pull them off, very much aware that a man whose nipples are erect and whose penis is misbehaving at all the pretty naked should either be focusing on keeping his clothes on, or shouldn't be playing childish games at the table. He throws the jeans at Sherlock's head and sits down hard in the chair, very much aware that his pants are clinging and that he could have taken his watch off instead. John tosses that to the table on the next match and drinks deep from the glass as he stares at the cards and tries not to contemplate what the next call means.

One of them will be sitting at the table completely naked in the next few minutes. One of them will hand over his underwear and either John will have to deal with Sherlock being insufferable at having won again, or John will be staring at Sherlock's penis and he won't be able to help himself. He can say openly that there's an element of curiosity and undoubtedly comparison to his own, but John really just wants to see, wants to capture the image and hold it so that he can take it to his bedroom and wank himself stupid.

He clears his throat as Sherlock drains his glass and reaches a little unsteadily for the bottle. "Are you drunk?"

"No," huffs Sherlock and splashes liquid over the side of the glass as he pours out. "My hand's just a little shaky, that's all."

"Have you eaten today?"

"I don't know," says Sherlock. " _You_ didn't cook."

"You can feed yourself, you know," says John and it should be a lecture, except it's delivered by a man in a pair of snug fitting pants that reveal the length of his cock and how it's quite happy with the situation. As it is, John takes another drink and grins at Sherlock. "Last man in his pants is a Jessie."

Sherlock frowns at him. "Last man to strip is the winner."

"Yes, but it's not likely to be me," says John and gestures to the pile of clothes sitting next to Sherlock at the table. "And I'm more manly than you so come on."

"What does that have to do with anything?" asks Sherlock and leans forward. "Are you worried about taking your pants off, John?"

"Sherlock," says John and tries to sound reasonable. He's fairly sure he sounds a little giddy and can't shake the suspicion that Sherlock knows John's hard and that all this is some elaborate tease. "I've been naked in front of so many more people than you."

"Well, I wasn't in the army," says Sherlock and John shakes his head.

"Not just there," he says. "People, Sherlock. Lovers."

"Oh _those_."

"Yes, those," says John. "So I'm more comfortable in the nude than you are."

"On what basis?" asks Sherlock. "Because more people have seen your penis than mine?"

John thinks he's blushing. He thinks his cheeks are red and worse, he thinks his chest is flush with colour, the way he's been told it does when he's fucking. He clears his throat and looks back at Sherlock. "Well, they have."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John and tosses his cards to the table as he gets to his feet. His thumbs hook into the waistband of his shorts and he skins them off, dropping them in a fine cotton pile on John's side of the table. He folds his arms and looks expectantly at John, who doesn't seem able to move. "I believe you're sitting on the side of the Jessies, John."

John can't move. He can stare and is plainly doing so, his gaze dropping from Sherlock's assured grin down across his flat belly and further to the surprisingly well groomed thatch of hair at the man's groin. John hasn't perused gay porn. He's showered with more men than he can remember and from being a child he hasn't so much as looked at a man with lust. He likes curves and bouncy parts and yet when it comes to Sherlock he can't seem to keep his cock from rising. John is aroused by the man's very name these days and he licks over his bottom lip as he settles on looking at Sherlock's penis.

All thoughts of medical evaluation escape him and all John can think about is that Sherlock tends to reveal himself to John and John only. His mind and now his body and John is staring with unabashed curiosity and want at a sturdy length of flesh that is thickening as he looks. He blinks a couple of times before he realises that Sherlock is indeed growing hard and it dawns on John that admiration has always done it for his flatmate. Clearly John's appreciation is no exception. He wonders very briefly if Sherlock gets stiff every time John tells him he's amazing before Sherlock clears his throat and John forces himself to look back at his face.

"Fine," he says. "That was cheating though. We hadn't played."

"Snap in three cards time," says Sherlock and John frowns. "Has to be."

John frowns and leans over the table to turn over each card and the third card turned is a match that would have won the game for Sherlock. It certainly wouldn't win the game for John, as he doesn't card count, or card eliminate and he looks back up at Sherlock again. "It's still cheating."

"Oh come on, I would have won," says Sherlock and gestures. "Pants off, John."

"No."

"Scared?"

"Yes," says John and fights the grin that wants to spread across his face. "Yes, I'm _really_ scared of being caught without my pants on in front of my flatmate."

"Interesting," says Sherlock. "Oh fine, if it bothers you that much, keep them on."

"No way," says John and pulls his pants off a little too quickly. The whiskey has affected his coordination and he gets a little tangled at the ankles before he can get his foot out. He scrunches them into a ball and drops them on Sherlock's side of the table before he stands up straight. All would be wonderfully easy and well, but John's penis is standing proud and John reaches for the bottle and swigs deeply. "Done."

"Yes," says Sherlock and his tongue touches the centre of his bottom lip. "I didn't realise you found snap so exciting."

"Yeah, card games do that to me," says John. "It's the thrill."

"Is it?" When John folds his arms, Sherlock gestures across the table. "So is it all card games or just snap?"

"I've never checked whether Mr Bun the Baker gives me a happy," says John. "But I've had a few exciting rounds of strip poker."

"Boring," says Sherlock and grins. "We could try Happy Families."

"I haven't got any pants on," says John. "Besides, we've _done_ card games."

"Oh, so you'd prefer something different?" asks Sherlock and John giggles. He presses his fingers to his lips and shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, it's just we're standing here bare arse naked, and all I can think about is that Hungry Hippos could be dangerous."

"Well you laugh in the face of danger," says Sherlock and John nods.

"Yeah, but not at getting my dick caught in a hippo," he says and sighs. "That sounds all wrong."

"We'll avoid it," says Sherlock and holds his hand out for the whiskey bottle. "You cold?"

"Is that an insult?"

"Hardly," says Sherlock. "I'm showing concern."

"No, you're showing that you own a razor," says John and grins back at his flatmate. "I thought everything else was transport?"

"Usually it is," says Sherlock and clears his throat. "Right, well, thank you for playing, John. I think I'll turn in."

"Oh," says John and as Sherlock picks John's clothes up, he puts a hand out. "You're not keeping those, are you?"

"Only for tonight," says Sherlock. "You can have them back tomorrow, when I'll expect the return of my own." He smiles and walks to the door, naked and apparently unconcerned. "Good night, John."

"Right," says John and licks his lip. "Night, Sherlock."

He reaches for Sherlock's clothes as the door closes behind the detective's back and tries to work out exactly what has happened here. He's not quite sure _anything_ has happened yet, or at least that none of the things that usually go with being naked and in company have happened. But then John hasn't been naked with men and expected anything more than camaraderie before. He hasn't wanted anything more and he isn't entirely sure what he wants now, other than to look and to touch.

John clears his throat, straightens up and carries Sherlock's clothes to the bedroom. He closes his door tight and listens out for any visitor, but he's quite alone. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts Sherlock's clothes on his chair as he considers what he needs to do next. He isn't about to go down and knock on Sherlock's door to ask if they are having something of a moment, or if Sherlock has changed his mind on sex. He wants to have a wank and he settles his hand in his lap before something dawns on him.

He has Sherlock's black pants.

John reaches out and grasps cotton between his fingers. He holds it close to his mouth and nose and his cock gives a hard throb at the scent of Sherlock's skin before John gets to work. He strokes cotton down over the heavy length of his penis, fingers and black cotton rubbing his foreskin over and down and John knows it won't take long for him to come. He was close downstairs and he doesn't hold back, just wants very much to come and know that he's done it with Sherlock's pants wrapped round his cock. He groans as he feels the familiar pulse and throb that tightens in his balls and rolls up and along the length of his erection and he comes in three sharp spurts. His fingers are sticky with his come and he holds still to try to catch his breath.

Tomorrow he'll have to wash out Sherlock's pants and he'll be back in the world where they don't do this. Sherlock might very well be nursing a hangover from the whiskey and there will undoubtedly be a case that takes John's mind off this. But there will be another moment of boredom and there has to be another game. John's counting on it and as he runs through the possibilities of what that next game will be, he grins and drops back against the bed.

Strip Kerplunk has a pleasant ring to it.


	3. Kerplunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John play strip Kerplunk.
> 
> It really is what it says on the tin.
> 
> The saucy minxes!

It's usually Sherlock who buys things of the internet, but John has made his latest acquisition and the box has been sitting in his room for more than a month. He isn't waiting for Sherlock to get bored this time, but for him to become curious. John hasn't mentioned the night he saw Sherlock completely nude, though his subconscious is happy to bring up the image when he needs it. It brings it up when he doesn't need it as well, but then John learned how to deal with accidental erections long before he had to deal with Sherlock Holmes.

They've worked hard and John's slept the sleep of the dead on more than one occasion. He smiles briefly every time he notices the box and busies himself with the minutia of living with Sherlock. He cooks, he makes Sherlock clean and he spends as much time as he can stand it under the spray of the shower. John's lived with lust for a long while and his hand now drops to his groin immediately he stands under the water. He even tried a date a week back to test whether an attractive woman could ward off the thirst for Sherlock, but as pretty as she was, John came home alone and got straight in the shower. He's feeling particularly clean.

They're still in the middle of a case, waiting for the word when John finds Sherlock sitting at the table, the box from John's room in the middle of the cleared surface. John's still damp from the shower and the collar of his dressing gown is wet where the drips slide down the back of his neck. His toes curl in his slippers at the small grin on Sherlock's face and John clears his throat and walks over. He pulls the chair out and pauses before he sits down.

"I think you'd be at a serious advantage," he says and Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"Kerplunk," he says and meets John's grin. "Interesting strategy."

"Well it's mostly pull the straws out and hope your balls don't drop," says John. "But I figured we'd start on an even playing field."

"Yes, I thought you'd say that," says Sherlock. "However, the odds are stacked _slightly_ in my favour."

John looks down at himself and counts before he takes in the jacket Sherlock's wearing over his shirt. "You planned this," he says. "You knew I'd bought it."

"You wore more clothes last time," says Sherlock and shrugs. "I thought it was my turn."

"Oh you did," says John and huffs. "I'm not wearing any pants."

Sherlock's grin widens and he pushes forward a small square of folded red cotton. "I had them laundered," he says and John can't quite fight the colour that tints his cheeks briefly.

"You said you couldn't find them. When I asked, you gave me everything else but you said you couldn't find my pants."

"Yes, because they were being washed," says Sherlock. "Do you want your pants back, John?"

John snatches them up and turns his back to get them on under his dressing gown. "This is still cheating."

"Hardly," says Sherlock and gestures. "Shall we begin?"

John bites his bottom lip before he sits down. He opens the box and takes out all the plastic widgets as Sherlock seems to examine the straws casually. More than anything John is conscious that he's wearing his dressing gown, pants and slippers and nothing else. He has a comb in his pocket but he's pretty sure that won't count and he's sure Sherlock's wearing six things to John's four. At least he's taken his shoes and socks off and John's sure that the only thing in his favour here is that it's pretty hard to have any strategy at Kerplunk. Even a basic knowledge of physics will only arm him slightly.

One way or another, all the balls will end up on the table.

He blinks at the thought, snaps the plastic tumbler together and settles it in the little tray before he reaches for the straws. John takes them from Sherlock and pushes them in randomly, ignoring Sherlock's huff. "They just go in," says John. "There's no structure."

"You're bending them," says Sherlock. "Surely breaking the game before we begin is cheating?"

"Kerplunk straws get bent, that's just how it works," says John and shoves more in until there's a tangle in the middle that John thinks is sufficient. He frowns before he drops the marbles in the top and checks that none have fallen through. "You have played this before, right?"

"Possibly," says Sherlock. "The rules are simple enough."

"Yeah, you pull out straws until a marble drops," says John. "And no shaking the table when it's my go."

"And when the ball drops?" asks Sherlock. "You take an item of clothing off?"

"That's the idea of it," says John and gestures. "And you're wearing more than me so you go first."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and reaches to draw a straw out. It seems to catch and he lets go quickly before moving to grab a second. John clears his throat. "What?"

"You touch it, it's yours," says John and Sherlock glares. "No, if we're having rules, we're sticking with that. Otherwise you'll test them _all_ and I'll end up sitting here without my pants on."

"That's going to happen anyway," says Sherlock and plucks the original straw out cleanly. "Your turn."

John took a quick breath and leans in to pluck out his own straw. It's a pretty little red straw that should have disturbed nothing at all and just happened to be the very one Sherlock had touched earlier. Sherlock's hands remain flat on the table and as far as John can tell, he hasn't moved a muscle. But the marble falls all the same and clatters into the little tray. John stares at it and then up at Sherlock's bemused smile. "It's just chance," says John. "You couldn't have known."

"Of course not," says Sherlock, sits back in his chair and taps the empty space beside him. "Your slipper."

"No," says John. "Last time I didn't get my clothes back for a week and you've only just given me my pants." He pauses. "Sherlock, what were you doing with my pants?"

"They're clean now," says Sherlock. "Everything _you_ handed _me_ was slightly damp."

"They were clean," says John and clears his throat. "Anyway, you're not having my slipper."

"You are taking it off, though?" asks Sherlock and John removes it and sits it at the foot of his chair. "Oh, how daring!"

"It's a slipper," says John. "Slippers aren't daring, they're comfortable and now mine's off."

"Exactly," says Sherlock and they start again. John gets through two safe straws before another marble drops and he toes off his right slipper and piles it next to the first.

"Do you charm them or something?" he asks when five drop all at once and Sherlock hasn't removed a single item.

"Would it help you to believe that?" asks Sherlock and John shakes his head.

"I just have the shittiest luck," says John and takes check of the clothes he's wearing. There's a choice of pants or dressing gown and he glances at Sherlock before he unfastens the belt and in a moment of inspiration, pulls it free. He drapes it over the back of the chair and gestures, palms wide as Sherlock shakes his head. "What? You're wearing a belt. You'll make it count."

"It's not intrinsic to my trousers!"

"Well it's not intrinsic to my dressing gown," says John and pulls the fabric a little closer together. "I don't need it to wear my dressing gown."

"And I don't need a belt to prevent my trousers falling down," says Sherlock. "But without it your gown will fall open and you'll flash everyone." He clears his throat. "Anyone."

John shrugs and keeps his knees together. "No flashing."

"Fine," says Sherlock and pulls out a straw quickly. The marbles clatter and he shrugs off his jacket. "If you've got tissues in your pocket, they don't count as clothing."

"No tissues," says John and is very careful as he draws another straw. He can feel the heat in his cheeks and is already calculating whether to risk pants or dressing gown next time. John looks over at Sherlock and catches the detective staring at the network of straws. He looks as focused as he is on any case and John wonders what it will take to keep _any_ of his clothes on. He doubts he'll be in anything more than a rush of colour and heat in minutes and he doesn't know what he should make of Sherlock's urge to win. 

John knows Sherlock doesn't like to lose, but his pants are clean and laundered and have been in Sherlock's possession for several weeks. While Sherlock _may_ just have forgotten, John hasn't lost the memory or  the sensation of wrapping his hand round his cock and bringing himself off with Sherlock's shorts. When he looks across the table at his opponent, all he can think is that if Sherlock did anything like that then they're messing about pulling straws from plastic when they could be shagging instead.

But John doesn't know and he has to pull a straw free. His hand shakes, the marbles fall and John stares at them before he glances over the table at Sherlock. "Ah," he says. "Now that was a mistake."

"It was certainly costly," grins Sherlock. "Pants or gown?"

"Oh do fuck off," says John and takes a quick breath before he gets to his feet. "You're loving this."

"I'm loving what exactly?" asks Sherlock. "That you're spectacularly bad at this game or-"

"Yes?"

"That you keep taking your clothes off in front of me?"

John swallows and keeps his dressing gown closed. "Ah," he says. "That."

"Yes, that," says Sherlock and gestures. "Pants or dressing gown."

"No," says John and points at his flatmate. "You're not even close. I knew this was a really bad idea."

"Is that why you bought the game?" asks Sherlock. "Because it was a bad idea?"

"It was supposed to be a bit of fun."

"Well, I'm having fun," says Sherlock and John folds his arms. "Go ahead, I'll sit here."

"Sherlock," says John carefully. "What did you do with my pants?"

Sherlock grins. "What do you think I did?"

"I really don't know," says John. "But if you were trying to collect some kind of dna sample you could have taken a strand of my hair instead. Much easier. You could have checked the comb."

"I wasn't looking for dna."

"Some experiment, then," says John and Sherlock shakes his head and keeps his hands flat on the table.

"I don't need a pair of your pants to know everything about you, John. I can just look at you and know anything you're thinking at any moment. I know you're worried about taking your clothes off in front of me, but you bought the game anyway. You don't have body issues, because it's served you well and you aren't ashamed of anything I might see, except the most obvious." He grins as John's hands fall from the edges of his dressing gown. "You know you're appealing and yet you think you should have put more clothes on because you always suspect I have some secret, some magic trick to win, but I always play _you_. I know _you_ , John and I know that you went upstairs last time, having won, to enjoy your prize."

John shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, my bedroom, Sherlock, is private."

"Not when you're taking part of me with you."

"Your pants aren't part of you," says John and Sherlock pauses and the grin that flits across his face tells John everything. "I didn't mean pants."

"Of course not," says Sherlock. "I did."

"You did what?"

"Did mean pants," he says and John straightens up. "Do you want to know what I really did with them?"

"Sherlock," says John and tries very hard to hang on to a reality where all of this is in John's head only. A reality where Sherlock is unaffected by John is a world where he is safe and in control and the possibilities that lie ahead in this brave new world are far too dangerous. While John is a brave explorer, he feels vulnerable and his toes curl against the carpet. The only thing he can do is face up to whatever comes next and the soldier inside the blogger steps up.

He forces his hands to unclench and reaches to pull his pants off from under his dressing gown. Red cotton pants are scrunched up in his fingers as John looks evenly back at Sherlock and as he drops them to the table, John feels freed of that worry. The world might change, might spin on as it has, but he's not afraid and he's very much aware that his cock is happy with the situation. It brushes against the open fleece of his dressing gown and John isn't about to hide that either.

Sherlock licks over his bottom lip and reaches over to pick up the pants from the table. For a moment, he looks at John's face and his gaze clearly travels down to John's straining erection. John doesn't move and Sherlock seems to take everything in before he very deliberately swings his arm sideways. His hand bashes against the plastic tower and all the marbles fall. John blinks at the noise but meets Sherlock's casual grin as the man gets up and out of his chair.

"Oh dear," says Sherlock. "I appear to have lost the game."

"Yeah," says John and bites down on his lip as he tries to keep in a giggle. "Did you just-"

"What?"

"Lose on purpose?" asks John and Sherlock sheds his shirt. "Not that I'm complaining. But I thought you wanted to win."

"You're losing sight of the bigger picture," says Sherlock and drops his belt to the table as John stands still and watches him. "There's a war to win, John."

"What war?" asks John and catches his breath as the trousers come down and are piled on the back of Sherlock's chair. "The no pants war?"

"Something like that," says Sherlock. "Can I keep yours?"

"What for?"

Sherlock grins and steps forward as he reaches for the edge of John's dressing gown. "For me."

"Yes," says John. "I got that you want them, but what do you _do_ with them?"

Sherlock clears his throat and tugs on John's dressing gown to bring him closer still. "While you lie in bed at night, wasting your time asleep, I think about the way you look when you're trying to hide how hard you get around me."

"Wasting time?"

"Really not the key point of that statement, but yes," says Sherlock. He leans forward and presses his mouth against John's ear. "Thinking about your penis swelling, growing hard just for me is the ultimate flattery, John. Do not think for a single moment that I'm unaffected. I'm just as susceptible and when I lie there, hard and alone, I use your pants to stroke myself to orgasm."

John takes a deep breath and turns his head. "You've been wanking with my pants?"

"Yes."

"Ah," says John and risks sliding his hands down over Sherlock's where they rest on the edges of his dressing gown. "So while you're flattered..."

"I'm _very_ flattered," says Sherlock. "At everything you say."

"Not everything."

"Everything."

"I've called you a dick."

"Well, almost everything," says Sherlock and leans back to look at John's face. "You won the game."

"I thought there was a war," grins John and tilts his head up. He can feel Sherlock's breath on his skin and he can feel the warmth of having the man's body this close. "Are you sacrificing your clothes for this one?"

"I'm offering you a reward," says Sherlock and John does giggle. The sound is a little echoey where it seems almost hidden between them. "You do want a reward?"

"Are we talking pants or me finding out you're not some asexual dick after all?"

"I'm not asexual."

"You _are_ a dick," says John. "You could have told me before."

"I'm saying now," says Sherlock and leans closer. All John has to do is tilt his head and he'll feel the kiss that almost certainly is on offer. "You can take my underwear off, John."

"I want you to do it," says John and Sherlock chuckles. "Get naked. You owe me that."

Sherlock stands up straighter and pushes his shorts down over his thighs. They shimmy down on their own from there and he steps out of them, his penis hard and John looks openly before he grins at his flatmate. "I won," he says and Sherlock nods.

"You're clearly a genius at Kerplunk."

"Well you cheated to lose," says John and reaches out to bring Sherlock close and in the warmth of his dressing gown. He licks over his bottom lip and settles a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "I like this practice, if you hadn't noticed."

"Something suggests you like it quite a bit."

"Something?"

"You _are_ rather hard."

John giggles and leans in and up, ready to kiss the man but he hears the loud ring tone of Sherlock's phone and the man turns his head before John can get there. Sherlock leans over to the table and frowns as he sees Lestrade's name. He flicks his thumb to unlock it and answer and while John keeps his hands on him, Sherlock rattles off details and John listens as the detective promises they'll both be there. He waits until Sherlock finishes the phone call before he raises an eyebrow.

"So I take it naked time is off?"

"Postponed," says Sherlock as he sighs. "They think they may have found the killer."

"Have they?"

"No," says Sherlock. "But it is a lead, John. We have to take it."

"Absolutely," says John and lets Sherlock go. He watches as Sherlock pulls his clothes on and heads to the stairs to get his own. He turns at the bottom riser and turns back to pick up his pants only to find them gone. He frowns and looks up as Sherlock straightens his lapel. "Where are they?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and pulls a corner of the red cotton out of his pocket briefly before he eases it back in. It looks fairly flat and John flushes red at the possibility of someone knowing. "Can I have them back?"

"No," says Sherlock and picks up his phone. "Do get dressed, John. We're late."

"Right," says John and walks to the stairs. He pauses at the bottom and turns back to Sherlock with a grin. "Have you ever played 'I spy'?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. "You know, I think it may be time to start."

"There's a killer on the loose."

"Oh, there's always one of those," says Sherlock and nods to John as he licks his lip. "Dress. There's a battle ahead, John."


	4. I spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following their adventures with Kerplunk, Sherlock and John are forced to track a dangerous killer.
> 
> Sort of.
> 
> They mostly play I spy and take their clothes off
> 
> And do smutty, naughty things.

John has traipsed after Sherlock on countless crime scenes. He is practiced at keeping out of the way and offering up his thoughts as Sherlock pauses for breath. Sometimes they're useful, but often Sherlock frowns and explains that something John has said is not right, however it has inspired an essential link to the truth. John is good at research and he's started to put things together on his own, very much aware that he delivers his own positive contribution to crime solving.

Often he's the person listening closely to Sherlock and though he can't make those leaps all on his own, he appreciates genius and loves following the logic that only seems obvious afterward. Well, sometimes they're obvious, but John's favourite moments occur when Sherlock talks loudly and quickly to get to the point and solves crimes the way other people order take-away. He revels in watching everyone else realise how fast Sherlock got there and how he can do what they can't. They hate him a lot of the time and John often has to fight the urge to punch them all in the mouth. He's damn proud of Sherlock in those moments and is sure that they balance out the times he wishes he didn't have to try and stuff his bony frame out of the door.

Usually John just hopes they can get out of there with some of John's dignity intact, but tonight he is in a rather different frame of mind. Tonight he's struggling with a hard on that won't go away and the thought that if he'd turned Sherlock's phone off, they'd be back home and John would at least be able to pin down exactly how it feels to feel Sherlock's skin against his own. Instead it's chilly and he's wrapped up warmly. John worries that Sherlock will get carried away and neither one of them will do anything but drop into bed alone and John will be achingly unsatisfied.

He pulls his hat down as Sherlock strides ahead and looks over the scene Lestrade's team has isolated. He can see his breath in the night air and John misses their cosy little flat. He shoves his hands under his armpits as he gets closer and Sherlock bends down and examines the evidence that seems near invisible to everyone else. He clears his throat as Sherlock quietens down and leans over. "You do know everyone else is looking for where he's going."

"They should be here," says Sherlock. "No. Wait. They shouldn't be here. They're distracting."

"Yeah," says John. "That's what they do. They don't investigate or anything."

"Stop being facetious, John. If they could solve this themselves, they wouldn't ask me."

"Lestrade asks you. They don't want us here." He pauses. "But they do need you."

"When it's important," says Sherlock and frowns at the marks on the floor. "This wasn't the killer."

"Hmm?" John leans over to look. "But Lestrade said-"

"He's wrong," says Sherlock and scratches at the ground. "He doesn't wear trainers."

"He could have changed his shoes."

"Yes, but not the size of his feet," says Sherlock. "These marks are smaller than those at the original site."

"Ah," says John and Sherlock gets back to his feet and looks round the room. "Can't believe they missed that."

"Really?" asks Sherlock. "It's a half size difference. I expect they decided it was negligible."

John shrugs. "So I suppose we should tell them."

Sherlock straightens and looks back at John, his scarf hastily retied. "And miss the opportunity to locate him ourselves?"

John grins. "He's a dangerous criminal?"

"Yes he is. So we should move quickly." Sherlock grins back briefly and then gestures behind John. "What's that?"

"Hmm?" asks John and turns to see Lestrade waving. "Oh, Greg wants us."

He turns back and is immediately hit in the face by one of Sherlock's gloves. The leather stings and John scrunches the glove up in his fingers. "What the hell was that for?"

"You answered correctly," says Sherlock and John blinks before he notices the detective wiggle his bare fingers. "It should be obvious, John."

John licks over his bottom lip and turns to look behind him. "It's supposed to start, something beginning with L."

"Lestrade," says Sherlock and John shakes his head. "Take something off."

"I wasn't playing," says John. "I was just saying-"

"I got it right. Take off that ridiculous hat."

John stares at him before he reaches up and pulls off the soft hat. He throws it at Sherlock and the man seems capable of hiding it away in seconds. John knows it must be in a pocket somewhere and before he can ask if they're supposed to just keep daring one another, he hears Lestrade's voice drawing closer. His head feels cold when he turns round and Greg walks up, rubbing his hands together to warm them up.

"Looks like he's long gone," says Lestrade and Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Go on then, let's hear it."

"Already?" asks Sherlock. "You didn't give me any time to point out what your people have missed."

"I wouldn't have called you if I didn't want you to take a look," says Lestrade and catches John's high colour. "Weren't you wearing a hat?"

"Not my thing," says John and listens as Sherlock spouts off, brilliant and correct and scary in that the killer could be very close and none of them might know until he jumps out and kills them. Sherlock doesn't look scared but eager and John knows they're about to go on a long walk, maybe a run until someone gets caught and John will be the man's constant companion whatever happens. He's been more than an assistant for a long while and that's outside the current games they're playing. So John will run and by the time Lestrade yells for his team to get a bloody move on and catch this bastard, Sherlock's already on the move.

"So you really think he's close?" asks John as he catches up. "He could be watching us now?"

"Oh, he's been watching us all along," says Sherlock. "He likes his press."

John looks round but it's just the two of them in the alley and he can't see any light in any of the windows that overlook it. He's been here before, but then he was armed and had a different kind of mission and he was used to people who didn't know him trying to kill him. He shivers beneath his clothes and nudges Sherlock. "So what's the plan?"

"We wait for him to get bored," says Sherlock. "He'll come out to play eventually."

"Ah, so we're taunting a killer," says John. "Someone who kills with knives, Sherlock. That's...well I'd say it's dangerous but it goes without saying."

"And yet you said it."

"Yeah," says John and pushes his hands into his pockets. "I like the way this night started better than this."

"We might as well amuse ourselves while we wait," says Sherlock and grins. "Now how about, I spy something beginning with M."

John glances round and reaches out for Sherlock's arm. "Murderer," he says and Sherlock chuckles. "Okay, not that. Um, muck?"

"Is that your final guess?" Sherlock asks and John shakes his head.

"No," he says and looks round carefully. He doesn't know what begins with M, but he _knows_ Sherlock, knows that the man wouldn't pick out something impossible for John to see. If Sherlock thinks John doesn't observe, he's clearly been looking at the wrong subject, because John is an expert in all things Sherlock Holmes and he isn't about to go down without trying. John stretches a hand out to the wall and grins as he looks back at his detective. "Mortar."

"Very good, John," says Sherlock and tosses over his other glove and gestures. "Your turn, I believe."

"Okay," says John and folds his arm. "Something beginning with N."

"North star," says Sherlock and tuts. "Child's play."

John grins and unstraps his watch. He hands it over and wonders how big the pockets are in Sherlock's coat. "You're it."

Sherlock grins and steps backward slightly before he announces it's a T, which turns out to be terra firma and John gets in under a minute. Sherlock wraps his scarf round John's neck, John points out it sort of defeats the object of stripping off, but he likes feeling the material against his skin. He likes the way it smells and he gives Sherlock his wallet, which Sherlock is really unhappy with because it's not clothes at all. However, it essentially something personal to John and is worth Sherlock guessing S for streetlamp.

By the time John has failed to guess F for friction ridges, John isn't sure what he can risk taking off next. It's colder as the night draws in and though blood is rushing in all sorts of directions, he doesn't fancy taking his socks off here. "How about I take the rest off at home?" he asks and Sherlock shakes his head.

"We've got a killer to apprehend," says Sherlock. "You can give me a sock."

"My foot will freeze."

"Then pick something else," says Sherlock and John huffs and moves to unfasten the scarf. "Not that. I took that off."

"Doesn't mean I can't," says John as he licks over his lip. "Sherlock, I'm not taking my socks off."

"Cheat," says Sherlock and John steps closer, lowering his voice.

"There's a killer out there. If we have to run, I want to be able to feel my feet."

"Ah," says Sherlock and grins as he glances round and looks back at John. "He's not here now."

"So?" asks John and catches his breath as Sherlock reaches out and unfastens his jacket. "Uh, Sherlock. Not getting any warmer."

"Really?" asks Sherlock and slides his hands under John's jacket and tugs at the jumper and shirt. "I shall try harder."

John tries and fails to hide his grin. He reaches for the edges of Sherlock's coat and tugs him close. "What are you playing at?" he asks. "We could get caught."

"Doing what?" asks Sherlock. "Staying warm?"

John feels fingers brush against a ticklish point and giggles. "Stop it!"

Sherlock's long fingers slide under John's shirt and brush against bare skin. "If you won't take anything off, we'll have to do something else."

John risks looking up. "Like what?"

Sherlock grins and slides his hands down to brush against John's belt. He unfastens it quickly and John gasps as Sherlock runs his fingertips over John's underpants. John can feel his cock twitch and the rush of blood is undoubtedly south. He holds Sherlock's gaze and grips his lapels tighter as the detective bares John's cock to the night air. Admittedly it's hidden night air, but John is hard and he is solid in Sherlock's hand. John could easily stop him, but he really doesn't want to.

He licks over his bottom lip as Sherlock wraps his hand round and jerks his cock with expert eagerness. The grin that touches the edges of Sherlock's lips is poetry and John can't seem to breathe. He wants to move but he can't seem to do anything more than push his hips toward his flatmate. Sherlock is gifted at this and why wouldn't he be? He's spent so much time alone and so much time playing the violin and those fingers are incredible. John'll come in seconds, he'll be spilling and so he growls and lets go of Sherlock's lapels to get his hand in the man's far too expensive trousers.

The thrill of hearing Sherlock catch his breath, of the man's hand pausing is unbelievable. He licks over his lip and John pushes Sherlock's trousers down as far as he can manage. John reaches for Sherlock's hands and pulls them away from his cock so that he can offer up the edges of his own jacket. He doubts it's any kind of cover for what they're doing, but no-one can really see anything. No-one can do anything but assume two men are very close in a dark alley, gripping one another's coats, staring with an intensity hot enough to burn anything that could possibly come between them.

Beneath those coats, John rocks forward, bare cock brushing against Sherlock's own. Not quite right, not at this angle and John pushes Sherlock until his back's against the wall. The detective grunts at the impact but for John it's a quick and wicked rub of cock to cock before Sherlock adjusts his stance and sinks down to improve that connection. John braces his feet and rocks forward and now, blissfully, his cock slides against Sherlock's own. He can feel the cool air beneath his balls and the rough brush of denim and lush fabric on his skin. Better still, Sherlock's hard and here is something he's seen but hasn't touched, has barely managed to get his head round before he grabbed him roughly in an alley.

Sherlock licks over his bottom lip as John makes all the effort here. His feet are pressed against the cobbles and John leans in closer still, feeling the slide of flesh along flesh, slick with pre-come at the head and the eagerness of wanting to spill. He stares at Sherlock's eyes, at his mouth and the want is huge. He can feel the urge to kiss, to devour, and he clenches his buttocks as John pushes in against Sherlock and comes with the energy of his misspent youth.

There's no pause, no waiting to ask where he should spill because John's cock throbs hard and there's slickness and warmth all over his belly. It's all over Sherlock too and John wonders if that expensive shirt is sticky too. John feels Sherlock shift and knows he's left the man unsatisfied. He hasn't earned any kind of continental nickname by leaving anyone behind and he drops a hand beneath the coat and grasps hold of the man's heavy cock. Sherlock catches his breath and there's a sudden rush and John's hand is slippery with come. He drops his head against Sherlock's neck briefly as he gets his breath back.

"S is for," murmurs Sherlock and John giggles against his coat before he can get a handle on this. He pulls his hat out of Sherlock's pocket and swipes over both of them as surreptitiously as he can and fastens up his jeans. Sherlock readjusts himself and gestures to John to drop the hat in the bin at the end of the alley. "Best dispose of that before Lestrade sets Anderson on it."

"Don't go there," says John and checks that he isn't as covered in semen as he thinks he might be. He seems to be fairly clean, but Sherlock's shirt is damp at the bottom and before he fastens his coat, John enjoys seeing the man disheveled. They walk amicably to the edge of the street and John clears his throat. "So that was new."

"Yes," says Sherlock. "A highly enjoyable diversion."

"Yeah," says John and keeps close, matching Sherlock's pace. "Not bad at all."

"You're thinking," says Sherlock and John nods.

"I'm thinking I've never done that."

"Outside or-"

"Never done that with another man," says John and keeps his voice low. "You have, though?"

"Not like that," says Sherlock and glances round slowly. "John, can you hear something?"

John pauses and listens before he shakes his head. "Just you and me. So I was thinking-"

Sherlock lifts a hand. "Think quieter."

John raises his eyebrows. "Ah," he says. "So sentiment, still not your thing."

"I'm very fond of you," says Sherlock and lowers his voice. "And I'd quite like it if you didn't die, so if by chance you've brought your pistol, now would be a good time to get it out."

John shakes his head. "I was distracted."

"Not to worry," says Sherlock and draws his phone out to fire a quick text to Lestrade. "Anyone stupid enough to hang around after a crime can't be that difficult to defeat."

"That's my Sherlock," says John. "Taunting a dangerous killer."

"It's a statement," says Sherlock and John isn't quite sure what happens next because he's hit on the back of the neck and drops down to his knees. He's aware that Sherlock is fighting because he can see bits of it, his gaze reduced to a blur as he tries to get himself together on the pavement. There's a loud crack and John struggles to get back up. He's as far as his knees when he sees the body slack against the wall and Sherlock is immediately in front of him and lifts John to his feet. "I think he may have a concussion when he wakes up."

"That's the guy, right?" asks John and touches his hand to the back of his neck where it's tender. Fortunately the scarf still seems to be tied tight and he thinks it may have cushioned some of the blow. "What the hell did he hit me with?"

"Something heavy," says Sherlock. "And metal. Are you seeing double?"

"No," says John and turns his head carefully. "I don't think I can list the months in reverse order but I'm fairly sure I don't have a concussion."

"Excellent," says Sherlock and reaches to put John's arm round his shoulders. "Still, no reason to keep you out here in the cold when we could head home."

John half grins and rests his head against Sherlock's neck as Lestrade's boys pound over. He listens as Sherlock explains the situation quickly and concisely and insists on a cab. John checks himself over carefully and though he suspects he's going to have one hell of a headache, he thinks he's okay. He leans next to Sherlock in the cab and by the time they reach Baker Street, John wants to relax in a hot bath and get rid of the aches of the day.

"I fancy a bath," he says and Sherlock nods at him, sheds his coat and heads to the bathroom. "Are you running it for me?"

"For you?" asks Sherlock and John pauses and then laughs.

"I don't know what I was thinking."

"About what?"

"This," says John and gestures to Sherlock as the man turns on the water. "I thought after tonight you'd be a bit more, you know?"

"No," says Sherlock and pours in a healthy dollop of bath salts. "I don't know. I'd be more what?"

"Considerate," says John and Sherlock stares at him.

"I caught the killer," says Sherlock. "I brought you home. And it was my scarf that protected you."

"I was wearing it because we played striptease," says John and then waved a hand. "Look, don't mind me. Just let me know when you're done so I can have one."

"One what?" asks Sherlock and as John turns to leave the bathroom, Sherlock closes the distance and takes his hand. "It's a big bathtub."

"Yeah," says John and frowns briefly before realisation dawns. "Oh," he says. "Are we talking about _sharing_ the water?"

"It's good for the economy," says Sherlock and grins. "And you may have concussion. I can't let you out of my sight."

"So your answer to that is to take a bath with me?"

"It's efficient," says Sherlock. "You can soak your aching limbs, I can keep an eye on you and of course I get to strip you naked."

John grins. "You didn't say I spy."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John Watson, take all your clothes off right now."

John steps back and folds his arms. "Or what?"

"Or I will be forced to dump you in the bath fully clothed."

"You'll ruin my jacket."

"I'll ruin you," says Sherlock. "Get in the bath with me, John."

John grins and pulls off his clothes with alarming speed before he looks at Sherlock and practically rips the buttons from his shirt to strip him down. Sherlock laughs and John urges him back toward the tub. His hands pull at Sherlock's belt and for a moment John catches the man looking slightly less graceful as Sherlock attempts to get shoes and socks off. John climbs in the tub and declares the water a little too hot and has the cold tap turned on as Sherlock joins him.

"You know," says John as Sherlock lounges against him. "I've usually kissed someone before I've got in the bath with them."

Sherlock tilts his head up. "You have to earn those, John."

"What? Kisses?"

"Well, you haven't won a game tonight," Sherlock says and settles against John's chest. "You pick the next game and if you win, I'll do nothing but kiss you."

John grins. "Nothing?"

"Wherever you like."

John giggles and settles his arms round Sherlock as he feels the water doing the trick. "Fine," he says. "Best limber up, Sherlock. I pick Twister."


	5. Twister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has bought a Twister Mat. The rules are simple - fall and take your clothes off. If he wins he'll get the kisses he's been denied.
> 
> Smutty, silly fun with clothes flying everywhere.

John is prepared. The plastic mat has been straightened out as best he can manage and although he hasn't attempted to iron it in any way, the creases seem minimal. The colours are very bright against the hard wood of the floor, a splash almost scandalous in their flat. John's excited and feeling a little silly at the same time. Although he's used childish games to get laid before, they've usually been spur of the moment. He hasn't texted anyone to tell them to get back in time for strip Twister because their landlady is out for the night before. But John _has_ texted Sherlock and taken the time to ensure he's got layers on because he suspects Sherlock will have the long limbed advantage.

Not that this battle is particularly about winning. Victory in this case just means that you've still got your pants on while your partner is starkers and John isn't sure which outcome will be best for him. Admittedly he hasn't been naked with Sherlock since they bathed together three nights ago, although the sensation has driven him into some quiet time on several occasions. His hand curls in at the memory of a slippery, ticklish Sherlock and John wants more. However, there has been another case and John, as much he wants to bed the man, needs to earn the kisses he was promised. He wants to claim a victory and plant a flag in Sherlock's bed and isn't prepared to settle for a stolen climax in a dirty back alley.

John sits on the edge of Sherlock's chair and gives the spinner a flick, watching as it lands on red several times. The thing never quite sits right and no doubt Sherlock will complain. He might be very much aware where John wants this to lead, but John isn't entirely sure if Sherlock plans to go there too. Sherlock does want to play games, that much John is certain of and they have to be fair. Or fairish. So when the door opens and Sherlock walks in, John is tempted to say to hell with the mat and wouldn't Sherlock prefer a nice game of cards instead.

Sherlock drops his coat to the chair and looks over the field of play before he smiles at John. "How long've you been sitting there?"

"Not long," says John. "A bit. You were longer than you said."

"It was a _little_ more complicated than I expected."

"He didn't kill his mother and his sister?"

"They were the same person."

"Ah," says John and stands up. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

"Not tonight," says Sherlock and gestures. "I don't think tea goes with Twister. Why don't you break out the Scotch?"

"Risky," says John but he grabs the bottle and pours out into the glasses on the table. "So do you know the rules to this?"

Sherlock nods. "I have played this before, John."

"What, you?" asks John. "Recently?"

"Hardly the sort of thing a respectable person like myself would indulge in," smirks Sherlock and John chuckles. "Not respectable?"

"There are ribs, _human_ ribs, in the cupboard," says John. "Only respectable if you're taking up cannibalism, which you clearly aren't, because you don't eat. And anyway, _you_ didn't answer."

"Not recently," says Sherlock. "One of Mycroft's birthday parties. Tedious then."

John nods and flexes his fingers. "Seems like you've ruled out a lot of games because Mycroft was good at them."

"Mycroft? Twister?" Sherlock tuts. "Do be realistic, John. He only played to win a bet and he didn't like putting his hands where other people had been. I can't entirely blame him."

"Well that's fine then," grins John. "Because this mat's new and the only one who's touched it is me."

"And I know where you've been?"

"Pretty much," says John and catches his breath as he wants to ask the question. "Look, if you don't want to, we don't have to."

"I know that," says Sherlock and looks directly at John. "We could strip right here and go to bed."

John clears his throat, unsure if his words are going to be squeaky. "That's an option?"

"Obviously," says Sherlock and steps closer. "But I won't kiss you."

"Oh."

"Because we made an agreement."

John nods slowly and steps back. He's ready for battle and gestures to Sherlock's shoes. "Best get those off then and plan on losing."

Sherlock grins and removes his shoes. "Oh I don't think that's _ever_ in my plans."

He sets the shoes to one side and John bends down, his hand trembling slightly as he spins the pointer. "Right foot red," he says and picks out a likely spot at the edge of the mat. Sherlock walks straight into the middle and his foot edges over the circumference of the red circle. "Were you gangly as a kid?"

"Tall," says Sherlock. "Useful when you spend much of your time getting away." He leans over and spins, leaving them both with a hand on yellow.

John remembers that he got tied in knots almost immediately when he played this game as a kid. He played with a mix of boys and girls and what he remembers most clearly is the thrill of being put in close contact with unseen body parts and the lingering smell of sweat. He had to abandon one game because the girl he liked possessed smelly feet but it was just once. He's stolen kisses on the mat before and he associates Twister with near opportunities and unauthorised access to hidden flesh.

Sherlock does not smell sweaty at this point. John can smell the man's skin where his arm's outstretched next to John's, and he thinks Sherlock has been stealing his soap because once again Sherlock has run out of his own. He's definitely been using John's shampoo as well, because the mop of curls is out of control and very shiny. John clears his throat and when he spins left foot green, he almost falls on his face because Sherlock quite deliberately puts his foot between John's own. It leaves John feeling Sherlock's thigh pressed against the inside of his and when he looks up, Sherlock is not quite smirking but it's _very_ close.

"Risky move," John says and Sherlock shrugs his free shoulder and reaches down to spin again.

Sherlock presses up against John a little more suggestively than John was expecting at this early stage and he topples forward, his face cold against the mat. Sherlock clears his throat as John lifts himself from the floor. "I thought soldiers had poise."

"That's ballet dancers," says John and takes off a sock, hoping it'll give him more grip. "I didn't expect you to bump into me that quickly."

"Just hoped?"

John rolls his eyes, spins again and moves back to the mat. This time he's more careful about where he puts hands and feet and though he falls quickly, he removes his other sock and this time he's better positioned than Sherlock. He likes the way Sherlock bends over and when the spinner requires a tricky left foot on a green circle, John has Sherlock beneath him and his dick begins to stiffen in his jeans. A move to put his hand on a red spot leaves John sprawled over Sherlock and he can't quite resist rubbing the hard length against Sherlock's bum in those tight trousers.

Sherlock pushes back for a moment before he has to move a stockinged foot where even the world's greatest detective can't keep his balance. John grins widely as he stands up and Sherlock recovers and kneels up. "You know the price," he says. "Take something off. Take your sock off. You won't slip so much then."

Sherlock looks at him and unfastens his shirt instead. "It's more of a challenge with them on."

"Yeah," says John. "But you can't be a naked man in socks."

"And who says," says Sherlock as he folds his shirt, places it on the table and bares his chest to John's appreciative gaze, "that I will be naked first?"

"I didn't say you would," says John. "I'm wearing more than you and even if I get down to my pants, I won't be in my socks. Just saying, socks, not particularly sexy. And don't say anything about brainy being the new sexy, because it really isn't if you're just in your socks."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and spun for a left hand on blue. "I think you may have a psychological issue with your feet, John."

"I'm fine with my feet," says John and steps back easily, stretched across the mat as Sherlock leans in closer. "I'm fine with your feet, but..." he pauses as Sherlock slides again and his knee drops to the mat. The man stands up and unfastens his trousers. He pushes them down and folds them neatly before he looks back at John again. John takes in the calf length socks and the black shorts and decides he really ought to consider carefully before declaring socks can't be sexy. "Right," says John. "Right, okay, you slide all over the place. See if I stop you."

Sherlock stood back on the mat and pointed at one of the red circles. "You're not supposed to stop me. You're supposed to keep your balance."

"Fine," says John and moves quickly to get his footing. He ends up half bent over and when Sherlock leans forward and presses against him, John finds his balance is very much in question. Sherlock grins at him as John lands hard on the mat and tugs at his jumper.

"You're out of socks."

John huffs and drops it to the side of the mat before he tries again. He's clearly incapable of managing to keep his bum off the floor when Sherlock ruthlessly presses bare flesh against him and John's dick has far too much blood while his brain doesn't seem to have enough. He drops a knee to the floor and strips his tshirt off. "You know, this is cheating."

"You told me this is what the game is about."

"I did not!"

Sherlock stepped closer and slid his hand to John's groin. He spreads his fingers over the hardness beneath and squeezes just enough to make John rock his hips forward. "You did."

John slides his hand down and covers Sherlock's own. "This isn't about that."

"Oh really? You've spent the last twenty minutes sliding against me and lecturing me on what I do and do not remove. You've been hard for most of them and what you're thinking about is exactly what we could be doing right now. My bedroom is less than a minute away and I could make good on every promise you've extracted from me." Sherlock licks over his bottom lip and leans in closer. "So why aren't you saying yes?"

John swallows and draws Sherlock's hand away from him. His arm strains with the effort of doing so and he swallows hard as he looks up at his flatmate. The man is icy, precise and knows more about John than anyone else, including John himself. But that's evidence and this is want and John looks at the clear lines of Sherlock's face. The man is an etching, some idealised form not of the perfect man, but of desire itself. He is intense and close and his mouth is rendered in harsh pinks that beg kisses.

John wants. It's as simple as that. He wants to kiss Sherlock's lips, to complete the step that defines the place where he stopped simply being John, lover of women and John Watson, Sherlock's lover. His hands might have strayed and his dick has become fine tuned to Sherlock's presence, but John judges actual relationships by who he wants to kiss. He could fuck anyone. He has fucked many and he wants to fuck Sherlock, but he wants to kiss and he's prepared to fight for it.

He spins the dial and pushes Sherlock back, hard enough that the man slips again. "Take your damn socks off."

Sherlock leans awkwardly against the mat and strips both of his socks off. When John raises an eyebrow, he spins again and leans back against the plastic. "Just my socks?"

John takes a quick breath and pulls the man back to his feet. "I'm winning your pants."

"Really?"

"Really," says John and for the last time he steps onto the mat. "There's no strategy here."

"Well, actually," says Sherlock. "There could be."

John stares at him and at each colour spun, he moves carefully, staying on his feet. Even when he's bent over and Sherlock is close, he balances himself. Only when Sherlock is almost entirely underneath him and the tips of John's fingers are pressed to the mat does he risk anything. Sherlock reaches out and spins, his hand flat on the floor and John's chest is pressed to Sherlock's back. "Left hand on red," says Sherlock. "John?"

John licks his lip and reaches round, his hand sliding over the flat planes of Sherlock's belly until he reaches the waistband of the man's shorts. He breaches the elastic and slides his fingers over the stiffening penis beneath. John takes hold and strokes over Sherlock firmly as he presses his mouth to Sherlock's ear. "I think it's more pink than red," he says. "But it _is_ my left hand."

Sherlock rolls his hips against John's fingers. "This is definitely cheating."

John grins and licks over Sherlock's neck beneath his ear. "It's a technique."

"Your hand-"

"What about my hand?" says John and picks up the pace. Sherlock's breathing has quickened and he's sure the man can feel the thump of John's heart against his back. "You want me to take it away?"

He pauses and the tiny, almost imperceptible noise Sherlock gives is in John's favour. His dick throbs in John's fingers and Sherlock turns his head. "I thought you were making a point."

"So I was," says John and moves quicker, sliding his fingers along the hard length until Sherlock comes, hard and loud in the middle of the mat. The slippery liquid spurts over John's fingers and onto the plastic mat and John marked down victory as Sherlock's knee dropped to the mat. John presses his mouth to the cup of Sherlock's ear and breathes out slowly. He touches the tip of his tongue to the lobe and when he licks, Sherlock holds his breath. "You owe me your pants."

"You haven't put your hand down," says Sherlock and John moves quickly, his fingers touching the mat before sliding back up to Sherlock's shorts.

"I win," says John. "I _own_ these."

"Oh _fine_ ," says Sherlock and moves to strip them off. John's hand catches hold and Sherlock turns to look at him. He smiles slowly and leans in closer to press his lips to John's own. It's brief and warm and he pulls back as John stares at him. "Fine."

John grins and moves back. He wipes his fingers against his jeans as Sherlock gets to his feet and John pushes his jeans off. John leaves them in a pile on the floor and walks over to Sherlock. The man lets John push him back against his chair and grins as John straddles his thighs and kneels on the soft fabric. John reaches out, one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and the other on his cheek. He breathes out slowly before John leans in and finally takes the kiss he's been waiting for.

Sherlock's mouth is soft, his lips cool and his tongue a slick muscle he offers up immediately. He kisses John with a hunger he never shows for food and John revels in it. He's long considered himself a good kisser, a man practiced at tasting a kiss without overwhelming the recipient. But Sherlock is a new experience. John's never encountered stubble before and he's relieved that it's something interesting, a texture he's not used to in others and he likes this. He's breathless when he leans back and John licks his lip. "This isn't a one off."

"Sitting in my chair?" asks Sherlock. "No, I'll sit in my chair again."

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock grins and settles his hands on John's biceps. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

John stares down at him and frowns. "You'll kiss me again."

"Possibly," says Sherlock and arches an eyebrow at John's expression. "Probably."

John swallows. "Look, are we doing this or not?"

"Doing what?"

"Stop being an arse," says John and stands up again. "You know what I'm talking about."

Sherlock stays put and watches as John grabs the glass off the table and knocks it back. He refills the glass and pauses before he drinks and looks back at Sherlock. "I've never shagged a bloke before. Never. And you just sit there like it's nothing."

"I didn't say anything like that."

"No, you're worse," says John. "You tease. You offer me hand jobs in an alley and snogs in our flat and I don't know where we are."

"John," says Sherlock. "Are you looking for some word to describe this?"

"No," says John. "I'm trying to make this something more than a game when you're bored."

"But we've enjoyed ourselves."

"Yeah, I know. And I want to keep doing it," says John. "I just don't always want to have to challenge you to a game before you admit you want to do it."

Sherlock frowns. "I told you I'd go to bed with you as soon as I walked in the flat."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't kiss me," says John. "I just want to be us. Like this."

"So," says Sherlock. "No competing?"

"Just being us," says John.

"In the flat."

"Yes."

"And you'll still come on cases with me?" asks Sherlock and John frowns at him. "Ah. So not that."

"What?" asks John. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock shrugged and stood up. "I'm going to bed."

John caught his arm. "What? What are you going to bed for?"

"What do most people go to bed for?"

"Well, five minutes ago, I'd have said sex, but you're not extending the invite so..." John paused, blinked and looked back up at his flatmate. "You do realise I'm still going to come with you on cases, right? I haven't given you the impression that this is sex and nothing else?"

Sherlock bit his lip briefly. "You didn't come with me this week."

"You didn't ask."

"I don't usually have to," says Sherlock. "You just come."

John grins at him and leans up to kiss him. "Seriously? All of this is because you don't think I'll come with you anymore." He smiles against Sherlock's mouth. "I can't get enough of you."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You need your space."

"Yes, but that's because sometimes you're mad and you borrow my things without asking. Not because I don't want to spend time with you." John licks his lip. "I'm trying to inject a bit of romance here, that's all."

"Here? With me? And you call me mad."

"Two people who like each other going out and having fun. Staying in and having fun?" John sighs and reaches for Sherlock's hand. "Okay, I give in. I'm mad because it's what I want and you're slipping for not noticing."

"I noticed you wanted me," says Sherlock. "I know you're fond of me."

"Yeah, but you didn't spot how much," says John and tugs on Sherlock's hand. "Let's go to bed."

"Now?" asks Sherlock. "Right now? And what then?"

"And then you can tell me what those ribs are doing in the cupboard," says John. "And maybe you'll tell me why you thought I wouldn't come anymore."

"I _definitely_ thought you'd come," says Sherlock. "I can guarantee it."

John chuckles and pushes open the bedroom door. "Well I wouldn't want to argue with a scientist." He kisses Sherlock as he pulls him into the room. "Tomorrow, you and me, truth or dare and the clothes are optional."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and is promptly kissed for it. "Honestly, John. I don't know how I doubted your bravery. Dare it is, then."


	6. Truth or Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock play Truth or Dare. Sherlock learns how to play Simon says. John gets to play with Sherlock.
> 
> Smut, fluff, very naked men and a dressing gown cord.
> 
> Thank you for playing! This is the last chapter but I hope it's what you were looking for. x

John Watson has woken up in many strange places before. He has woken with his face smushed in sand, his leg dead from the thigh down where equipment shifted in the night. Once he woke under an ex-girlfriend's bed where they'd had a drunken row and he hadn't quite managed to walk out. Since he returned from Afghanistan he's woken in a damp sweat on nights often enough to count in hundreds, his skin crawling on his body and his mind a jumbled memory of horror and purpose.

It's happened less since he moved into 221b, but it does still happen. He hadn't expected to wake in Sherlock's bed with sweat beading his forehead and John's breathing takes a few minutes to steady. The calm comes not because there's an absence of danger, but because there is a point to existing today and he stretches his arm out and settles his hand over Sherlock's thigh, soothed by the contact. The man is oddly warm in the comfort of the bedding and John turns on his side and wraps up close. He likes cuddling up when he's in a relationship and he presses his face in against the back of Sherlock's neck as he accepts completely that this is The relationship.

John Watson, lover of women and unable to hold a girlfriend down for longer than it takes it acknowledge he has one, is someone's boyfriend again. He's Sherlock's boyfriend and John buries in closer, determined that if he's adding that information to his self image, he can do it here before he has to deal with what it will mean out in the world. John has no intentions of making a big announcement. He doesn't think it's anyone's business but their own, but he knows it'll make a difference on how he deals with Donovan in future.

Maybe that's all it has to be, just some sharp comment to cut her off before she can really start. Just enough to make it clear that Sherlock is as much John's as John is Sherlock's. Just a little claim that says everything and nothing. He grins against Sherlock's shoulder and the man huffs and reaches for John's hand. He brings it up to his chest and John can feel the steady thump of Sherlock's heart beneath his fingers. "You talk in your sleep," says Sherlock, voice half muffled by the pillow.

"Sorry," says John and presses a kiss against Sherlock's neck simply for the pleasure of being able to do so. "Nothing incriminating, I hope."

"Just pledging your body and soul to me," says Sherlock.

"Really?"

"Well, you said my name several times and groaned. I _inferred_ the rest."

John giggles and spreads his hand out over Sherlock's chest. "Well, I'm sure that if you want my body, you can have it and as for my soul-"

"I accept," says Sherlock and John lifts his head, aware that the man's smiling. "Everything. Including your snoring."

"I don't snore."

"I recorded you earlier. I can play it back if you like."

John blinks. "Recorded me?"

"I was awake," says Sherlock and turns in the sheets, delicately untangling his feet so that he can get closer to John. "You were not and my phone was handy."

"You recorded me on your phone?"

"Was that not clear?" asks Sherlock and arches his neck as John strokes his hair. "You're very affectionate."

"You haven't been a dick yet this morning," says John and as Sherlock frowns, he leans in and kisses him. Morning breath be damned, the man is irresistible and John is smitten. In deep smit, as it were and he grins as he draws back. "So last night..."

Sherlock settles a hand beneath his chin and rests on his side. "Is this the part of the conversation where I can refer to those films Molly lent you?"

"Love Actually is a classic," says John. "But no, I'm not about to say this doesn't mean something. Or that we should talk."

"What are you going to say?"

John clears his throat. "Well, we _should_ talk," he says and Sherlock rolls his eyes. "But not about what this is."

"You don't require definition?"

"No, I know what this is. I know what I want and what you are to me," says John and lifts his hand to stroke Sherlock's hair. "And it's all still fine."

"Ah," says Sherlock and smiles. "So that's good?"

"A lot good," says John and kisses Sherlock again before he really is too aware that the room smells a little funky and that the night before they wriggled all over the bedspread. Sherlock is unsurprisingly agile and giving in bed, a lover who isn't prepared to settle for anything less than absolute effort and satisfaction. It's wonderful while it's happening but John is efficient and clean at heart and he wants to start today the way he thinks the rest of it should continue.

He pulls back and heads to the bathroom and by the time he's showered and brushed his teeth, John is quite certain that the only real thing that has to change about John is the idea of commitment itself. He walks back into the now empty bedroom, ready to tell Sherlock that he's happy, only the man has removed himself. John heads through and raises his eyebrows at the tea on the table. One little gesture of domesticity and John licks his bottom lip and refuses to put his pants on. He pushes his dressing gown off and leaves it on the back of the chair as Sherlock passes a cup over. For a few quiet minutes John drinks his tea and reads the paper for pleasure while Sherlock carries out the morning's ablutions.

Sherlock strolls back into the kitchen, towel raised to rub over his hair and not a shred of anything else covering his skin. He scrubs a hand back through damp curls and sets his hand on John's bare shoulder. "Anything good?"

"No one died in mysterious ways," says John and grins at the huff behind him. "I believe we talked about a game."

"Oh yes," says Sherlock and sits down at the table, towel dropped to its surface. John stares at it and decides very quickly that these really aren't the important details he wants to think about. He smiles at Sherlock and clears his throat.

"So?" asks John. "Do you want to start?"

"I thought we had," says Sherlock. "Isn't it obvious?"

"What?" asks John. "You've picked?"

Sherlock reaches out and strokes his fingers over John's hand before he settles. "The truth, John."

"Oh, that," says John and takes a quick breath before he grins at Sherlock. "Have you been planning this for a while?"

"This game?"

"Us," says John. "Being together."

"I've considered it for some time," says Sherlock and John grins.

"How long?"

"In minutes?"

"However long," says John. "Days, months, whatever. How long?"

"I've considered this since you ran after a cab with me," says Sherlock and grins when John laughs. "That's amusing to you."

"Yeah," says John. "It kind of means you're slow."

"What?"

"Well _I_ thought about it since you went all fluttery and told me how flattered you were." John shakes his head. "You and your boat shaking."

"I believe those were your terms," says Sherlock and leans in and kisses John. He licks over John's bottom lip and sucks slowly, leaving John grinning and his mouth tingly. "So that answers your question."

"Pretty much," says John. "How come you didn't-"

He breaks off as Sherlock kisses him again and slides his fingers over John's. "I believe the rules dictate it's my turn now."

"Well yeah," says John. "No-one's taking their clothes off this time."

"I can put some on if it pleases you."

"Nope," says John. "Naked is definitely working for me."

"Excellent," grins Sherlock. "So?"

"Dare," says John and Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "You expected me to say something else?"

"I thought you might build up to it," says Sherlock. "But never let it be said I don't embrace opportunity."

"Okay, fine," says John and sits back, naked, aroused and interested in anything Sherlock has to say today. "Go on then, dare me."

Sherlock grins and drapes an arm against the back of the chair. "Make me come."

John rolls his eyes. "I've done that before."

Sherlock leans forward and strokes his fingertips over John's bottom lip. "With your mouth."

John licks at Sherlock's fingers. "Well-"

"Just your mouth," says Sherlock and grins lazily. "Keep your hands to yourself. In fact," he says and reaches for the cord of John's dressing gown. "Let's make sure of that."

John stares at him and gets to his feet decisively. He turns and puts his hands behind his back, fingers wiggling toward Sherlock. "Go ahead."

Sherlock doesn't hesitate and John's wrists are tied in what he recognises as a handcuff knot, effective only he wants it to be. He flexes his wrists briefly and turns back to find Sherlock sprawled back against the chair. He's elegant even here and John can see how artists become obsessed with their models. John drops to his knees, bum leg long forgotten and he moves forward, confident and agile as Sherlock watches him. "You've thought about this?"

"It's not your turn," says Sherlock and John grins and presses his lips against Sherlock's inner thigh. "Definitely my turn."

John chuckles and draws his tongue along the crease between torso and thigh. Sherlock tastes clean and yet there's more than a faint scent of heat and desire here. John leans in closer, his face pressed to Sherlock's belly and the rub of penis against his jaw and face makes him tremble. He's touched, he's held and he's made Sherlock come but this is closer than he's ever been and John turns his head and draws his tongue along the length of Sherlock's erection. His lips brush against the smooth head and he licks at the tip, tasting the slippery liquid that's gathered.

Once again, he's confronted by something new, something Sherlock and here's another line to cross, another place where John's discarded heterosexuality could kick up a fuss. And while John could never envisage doing this with another man, Sherlock is irresistible. He breathes in slowly as he licks again, his mouth covering the smooth surface until John can lean up far enough and envelop the head of Sherlock's dick. He breathes out slowly, evenly as he uses his tongue to swipe over the skin and this is hot, is warm and John slides over further. He can feel the pulse of Sherlock's penis beneath his tongue and he experiments, sucking until he can feel the slow roll of Sherlock's hips up against John's mouth.

John can hear the catch in Sherlock's breath and he slides down further, lips tightening around the stiff length until he's sure he can't take anymore and isn't sure that it would help if he did. So he sucks, his tongue laving pink flesh, everything he's ever liked himself until he closes his eyes and can feel the flutter in Sherlock's belly. He knows Sherlock's close and John breathes out, tongue slippery against Sherlock's skin and with a long groan of John's name, Sherlock comes.

He knew, he always knew that he'd swallow when it came to it. John's mouth is warm and then full and he can taste the bitter, salty liquid that he's thought about. He swallows slowly, easing back onto his knees again, feeling the hard floor beneath them and the slightly dizzying realisation that he's capable of making Sherlock come with just his lips and tongue. He licks over his bottom lip and looks at Sherlock. "Help me up?"

Sherlock blinks, his focus returning and he reaches down and pulls John back to his feet again. He stares at John with something close to wonder in his eyes and he grins. He reaches behind John to unfasten the cord and drops it to the table. "You're good at dares."

"Very good, remember," says John and grins back. "You've thought about it."

"Is that my question?"

"You haven't called truth or anything," says John. "You've thought about it."

"It was better than I imagined," says Sherlock and strokes his hand over John's cheek. "You're better than I could have hoped for."

John chuckles. "I've always tried to be a good lover."

"I meant everything," says Sherlock. "You're best at everything."

"Not everything," grins John. "You do the thinking."

"No," says Sherlock. "I mean you're just amazing. Every bit of you. You're something I hadn't expected."

John nods, but he can't shake the grin. "I'm fantastic," he says. "Truth or dare?"

Sherlock offers his hands up. "Dare."

"No," says John and pushes the cord away.

"I'm allowed to say dare," says Sherlock and John chuckles.

"Yeah, you're allowed to say dare, but I'm not going to tie you up," he says and licks over his bottom lip. "You're far too excited about it."

"I thought you liked that."

"It's not without its appeal," says John and reaches for Sherlock's hand. He strokes his fingers over the back and turns it so he can tickle Sherlock's palm. "But no, that's not what I have in mind."

"And what do you have in mind?"

John grins. "You do what I say," he says. "Simon says."

"I don't know a Simon."

"All right, John says."

"John says what?"

John laughs loudly as he looks at Sherlock's puzzled expression and leans forward to kiss him. "For ten minutes, if I start something with 'John says', you have to do it. And if I don't start it with 'John says', you shouldn't do it at all."

Sherlock frowns. "Why do I do that?"

"Because I dared you," says John. "I dared you to do what I say."

Sherlock takes John's hand and bites his bottom lip. "Do I have to do that?"

John nods. "John says you do."

"It's very odd hearing you refer to yourself in the third person," says Sherlock. "But agreed."

"Good," says John.

"Now what?" asks Sherlock and John licks his lip.

"Kiss me."

"John didn't say."

"Fine, John says kiss me."

"Fine."

Sherlock leans forward and kisses John soundly. He licks over John's bottom lip and traces the shape, leaving John tingly and giddy with the desire to have more. "John says," he begins, but Sherlock's close and kisses him again, his hands on John's jaw as he indulges them both. John groans into the kiss and draws back, dizzy and still eager for more of those. "John says bend over the sofa."

Sherlock's almost out of the chair before John finishes his sentence. He pads over the floor and bends over the arm of the sofa, his feet braced on the floor. Sherlock's hands press against the cushion of the sofa and he looks back at John when he doesn't immediately move. "You're not going to leave me like this?"

John blinks and gets up out of his chair. "I didn't think you'd be quite so compliant," he admits and walks over, grin spreading over his face. "Really. I kind of thought you'd say something about it."

"Would you like me to?"

"Yes," says John. "Anything."

"John says?"

"Absolutely."

Sherlock arches his back slightly and braces his feet on the floor. "John, I haven't bent over the sofa for you to ignore what I'm offering."

"And that is?"

"Me," says Sherlock and John grins. "Is that what you were looking for?"

"Oh yes," says John and leans forward, his hands on Sherlock's sides before he presses his mouth to the dimple in the corner of Sherlock's spine. "Oh God, yes," he says again and kisses there before he draws his tongue down. He uses his hands, his thumbs to tug and he presses his face in against supple flesh, warm flesh that makes John's dick throb. He can feel the pulse at the base of his penis and he groans as he tongues the warm skin and feels Sherlock press back.

" _You_ are amazing," says John as he licks again and Sherlock spreads his feet wider on the floor. "God, I want you."

"I'm right here," says Sherlock. "I can't make myself _more_ available."

"Absolutely," says John and licks again. "Sherlock, I'm serious. I really want to do this, but I haven't. I mean, I _have_ , but not with..."

"John," says Sherlock with an air of indefinite patience. "Sherlock says fuck me."

"Oh. Right," says John and leans closer, one hand on Sherlock's hip. "It isn't strictly speaking your turn."

"Fine. Don't."

"I'm good with it," says John and shifts his weight carefully, spits into his hand and feels so rough and ready that he finds himself fighting the urge to giggle. He leans in against Sherlock and feels the slow ease as he pushes forward. All this heat just for John and he groans loudly as he feels the give and sudden slide forward. "Oh," he says loudly and grips a hand against Sherlock's hip. "Oh, that's really good." Sherlock pushes back and John rolls his hip. "This is really, genuinely, incredible."

"You're very vocal," says Sherlock. "I like it."

"That's a bonus," says John. "Not likely to shut up now."

"Good," says Sherlock as John rocks his hips and makes a slightly high pitched noise. "Truth."

"Hmm?" asks John and slides forward. "Not now."

"You tell a truth," says Sherlock. "Now."

"Can't think."

"Of course you can," says Sherlock and stretches his hands against the sofa cushion. "Use your brain."

John groans loudly and leans in closer. "Sherlock, really, not enough blood in my body. It's dick or brain. Can't do both."

"Do this then," says Sherlock and John leans forward, his chest pressed against Sherlock's back. "It's just," he manages, his breath coming faster. "John, how long have you wanted me like _this_?"

"Ages," manages John.

"Define ages."

John presses his face against Sherlock's back and bucks harder, fucking the man who makes his brains ache and he can't breathe. "Since the drugs bust," he snaps. "You looked at me."

"I look at you a lot."

"Yeah, but it was _hot_ ," says John. "Intense."

"I was trying to get you to understand."

"I did understand," says John and bucks harder. "Seriously, I understand, Sherlock. I got it. I do. I did." He gasps as he comes and feels Sherlock press back against him. John pants against Sherlock's back and presses a kiss on the back of the man's shoulder. "I get it."

"So it seems," says Sherlock and reaches back to squeeze John's hip. "You cut a fine figure in your jeans."

John grins and kisses Sherlock's shoulder blade. "I am fucking gorgeous."

He eases back slowly and sighs as he looks down at the pair of them. Sherlock stands, stretches and reaches to kiss John, arms wrapped round and his body warm against John's own. "Yes, you are," says Sherlock. "And now that I don't have to do what you say, ask me for the truth."

"Yeah?" asks John and looks up at him. "How long've you known you loved me?"

"Since you told me I was an idiot," says Sherlock. "Then."

John nods. "Made you say it."

"You said it," says Sherlock. "I clarified."

"Okay," grins John. "Still made you."

"You did," says Sherlock and reaches for John's hand. "You made me something else."

"What?"

Sherlock grins and presses his mouth against John's ear. "Yours."

John smiles and keeps hold of Sherlock's hand. "You know, I don't think I need to go anywhere today, Sherlock. I don't think you do either. So why don't we turn in, get our heads down."

"Go to bed and have as much sex as we can stand?"

"That's the plan," says John and tugs his fingers. "I've never had my own consulting detective before and I seriously intend to enjoy it." He draws Sherlock back to the bedroom. "I knew I'd get to the truth of it eventually."

"That you're completely devoted to me."

"That too," says John. "Didn't realise I'd have to strip to do it."

"You should always look to the basics, John," says Sherlock as he reaches for the door. "If in doubt, take your pants off."

"They're off."

"Wonderful," says Sherlock. "Let's keep it that way."

**Author's Note:**

> A friend suggested strip chess. I am entirely indebted to her for the idea and for triggering a bunch of ideas that made me giggle.
> 
> As always, comments and criticism are welcome and any kind of feedback is thoroughly appreciated.
> 
> I hope you like it.


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